


burning bridges, and other quality pastimes

by finalizer



Series: tales from the galaxy [2]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Multi, spoilers for vol2 obvs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-31 09:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10896123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: As it turned out, attempting peaceful cohabitation was the least of their problems.In which Peter's dad comes a-knocking and everything teeters on the verge of going to shit.





	burning bridges, and other quality pastimes

**Author's Note:**

> set in the same universe as the [christmas fic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2832188)

It pretty much all started the week after Yondu set off on his damned Caribbean cruise. It was a nightmare to begin with, practically torture — Peter and Rocket left to their own devices, solely in charge of the cafe, with explicit instructions from Yondu _not_ to burn it all to hell. It was easier said than done, all things considered, because Peter and Rocket could not cooperate to save their lives, let alone leave the building standing in one, relatively functioning piece. 

They took the easy way out, since learning to work together like adults was decidedly out of the question. Thus, the shift system. Rocket took evenings with Carina, Peter took mornings with a newbie they’d hired weeks back: a quiet, bright eyed girl he knew from his freshman social sciences class. Everyone and their mother knew her as Mantis, and Peter was yet to find out why. He wasn’t all too keen on learning the truth behind the nickname, but it stuck regardless. It was fun to watch the customers blink with innocent confusion at the handwritten name on her tag. 

And yet, peaceful cohabitation was the least of their problems.

 

/ 

 

“The thing is, the rhubarb pie has zero rhubarb in it. It’s some sort of chemical concoction that I wouldn’t even go as far as calling jam. If I said it was jelly, I’d be lying. If I called it jello, that’d be more accurate but still not enough, because jello has some semblance of taste and texture, and whatever they put in those pies most certainly does not. See, you’re on the healthy side, you vegetarian loon, so I won’t serve you the pie, because I can’t vouch for what they grind up to squash inside.”

Groot blinked from the other side of the counter.

“The apple pie too, I’m assuming,” he mused aloud. He didn’t need Rocket launching into another tirade about the correlation between the Galaxy’s pies and biohazard waste. 

It was touching that he cared about Groot’s borderline obsessive environmentally friendly attitude, but more so than that it was fucking annoying, and Groot had no problem telling him so.

“Yeah, the apple pie’s ten times worse.”

“You’re fucking annoying,” Groot told him.

Rocket scrunched up his nose. “I’m trying to be supportive.”

“Have you tried, oh, I don't know, _recycling_?” Groot asked pointedly, because Rocket had most certainly not tried recycling and got shit for it every time his leftover Red Bull cans found their way into the general waste bin.

“It’d be so much easier than threatening me with the ingredients of everything I put in my mouth,” Groot called after him, as Rocket scurried away to hide at the far end of the counter in shame. “Plastic and paper, tin cans and glass bottles, dude. It’s not rocket science.”

“It’s real hard to remember which is which, Groot,” Rocket insisted from behind the steaming hiss of the espresso machine. “My memory ain’t great.”

Groot raised an eyebrow and fixed Rocket with a silent glare of burning judgement. “And yet you can list all four trillion chemical components of Hot Cheetos. Good day, Rocket.”

And just like that, Rocket was left alone with no one but the semi-sentient dusty broom in the employee’s lounge to keep him company. He figured he deserved it — to think over his poor life choices: like why he went to college and worked his ass off to pay for it instead of going into professional skateboarding in the first place. 

He sighed, and went back to work.

 

/

 

About ten minutes into his stress cleaning spree, the bell chimed above the doorway and in walked Gamora.

She took one glance at Rocket and turned on her heel.

“Oh, come on, what did you expect?”

“Peter.”

“Peter works mornings, lady, get it through your stubborn skull,” Rocket grumbled. “I know yous love each other now, or something, but that don’t mean I’m gonna quit my job just so he’ll fetch you free coffee every time you walk past these here doors.”

Gamora stopped, rolling Rocket’s words over in her mind. He wasn’t wrong about her sudden inclination to spend more time than usual in the cafe, but he was the one who’d set them up in the first place, so he could suffer through the occasional displays of obnoxious PDA.

“I actually came here to yell at Peter, but if you’re so desperate I’m sure I can find something to call you out on as well.”

Rocket did not squawk, because that was undignified and cowardly, and he was neither of those things. Most of all, he was _not_ scared of Gamora. 

Okay, he did squawk.

“Nine ’til three. Quill leaves three on the dot, just so we don’t bump into each other in the doorway when we switch. I’m always late in case he doesn’t leave on time. We make it work. _Don’t yell at me_.”

Gamora’s lip quirked up in an almost smile, taking pleasure in eliciting fear. Rocket chalked it up to her naturally commanding presence, not necessarily a penchant for outright sadism. That was the other one — the _sister_. Though, then again, Nebula wasn’t sadistic in the slightest, just disarmingly sharp and sarcastic, and — _oh_ , okay, Rocket was generally frightened of everything, wasn’t he? It was a jarring and eye opening self discovery. 

He was snapped out of his all-consuming thoughts as the door chimed again, announcing Gamora’s departure.

And then Carina materialized at his side, and he bounced a few inches into the air. It was remarkable, how he’d lived his whole life blissfully unaware of how jittery he was. 

“This is much easier,” Carina said fondly, holding up the mop she had in hand. “Our boss at my old job had us clean the floors by hand, on our knees with a rag.”

With a smile, she turned and ducked back under the counter, to finish cleaning up the mess a colorful band of boys had left in one of the big window-side booths.

Rocket stood, shocked into silence for a good few minutes, then decided he didn’t want to know any of the details concerning that particular human rights violation, and returned to stacking paper cups by the blender.

 

/

 

“I came by yesterday, ‘cause I forgot you switched up the schedule like schoolchildren who can’t handle exchanging small talk without throwing entire tubs of ice cream at one another.”

Peter gave Gamora a _look_. “That was one time. Besides, we couldn’t leave Carina with Mantis to handle a whole shift alone. Now, don’t invoke a new wave of feminism here, but they’re pretty helpless on their own.”

Gamora tried very hard not to snarl at the implication. “Fine. Sure. Carina requires a certain level of supervision. Mantis, however, can be trained into shape, and then you and Rocket can go back to learning how to be functioning adults. Together.”

Peter shrugged. “You said it yourself, baby, too much testosterone in such a small, crowded space.”

“Then rein it in.”

It was hard to argue with a brick wall, especially when she won every argument, also was gorgeous, and Peter would let her walk all over him in high heels every hour of every day.

“What did you want yesterday? I was told you dropped by,” he asked. A moment longer lost in thought and he would be leaning over the counter to kiss her, therefore breaching at least two of the bullshit rules the employees had to follow — there was no use arguing with the Health Department. 

“Do you even work here?” Gamora asked offhandedly. “There’s hardly ever any clients. All you do is rearrange the condiments and color code the cupcakes. And hold full length discussions over the counter. And cram for your retake exams. How is this place still open?”

Peter blinked and shrugged again. Yondu’s underground ways were beyond him, and frankly, above his pay grade. 

“I got a weird call yesterday,” Gamora said then, changing the topic to what she’d originally come to say. “I tried texting you about it, but I’m guessing your phone was involved in yet another tragic accident that deprived you of communication with the outside world.”

“I was playing Geometry Dash and dropped it in the toilet on accident. It’s in rice.”

“Lovely,” Gamora quipped. “Here’s the deal: make me one of those cookies n’ cream lattes and come sit down with me. You can leave Mantis alone for a while, this place is dead anyway.”

Peter took a step back, pushing off the counter with both hands. He scanned Gamora’s face for any hidden ulterior motives, and was unpleasantly surprised to find not one ounce of humor in her dark eyes.

“That serious, huh?” he huffed.

“That serious,” Gamora echoed, and flicked a five dollar bill onto the counter. “And that’s so you don’t get in trouble for treating me to a lifetime supply of free coffee.”

Peter scoffed. “How ‘bout a tip?”

Gamora was already halfway down the room, heading towards the most secluded booth to wait for her drink, and her boyfriend. “Come by my place after your shift. You’ll get your tip, Peter. Now, chop-chop, get to work.”

A few moments later, a very eager Peter Quill was sitting across from Gamora, already sipping from the drink he’d just made. For her.

It didn’t deter Gamora from telling the story. “I was minding my own damn business, halfway through my midterm paper, when some unknown number calls me, and claims he’s your father, and wants to know how to get in touch with you.”

Peter spit a mouthful of Gamora’s latte across the table, choking on a piece of Oreo that’d gotten lodged in his throat. She eyed him distastefully, because she couldn’t believe this marvelous idiot was _her_ marvelous idiot, and because the situation at hand was harsh enough to lend him a pitying glance or two.

“Sorry, _what_ , now?”

“Your father,” Gamora repeated. “The one who left you and your mom, the one who you said you never wanted  to see again.”

“Was it really him?”

“I’ve never met him, Peter. I wouldn’t know what he sounds like.”

A wad of napkins dropped onto the table beside the latte puddle, and Peter looked up to find Mantis smiling at him in a very characteristic show of generosity. 

He muttered a quick thanks, and began blotting out the coffee before it seeped into the wooden tabletop and stole a damage-repair fee off of his next paycheck. Mantis made her way back to the register, inhumanly soundless in her graceful departure.

“What’d you tell him?” Peter finally asked.

“I — ” Gamora started, and immediately fell silent when her words failed her. That in itself was enough to freak Peter out. “Look, I don’t know who this guy is, and he somehow knows my number, my name, and says he’s your dad. So, I don’t have any proof that he’s not a delusional whackjob, _and_ you’ve told me numerous times you don’t want anything to do with your dad. I told him nothing.”

“You just hung up?”

Gamora scoffed. As if the easy way out of social interaction, _hanging up_ , was a commonly acceptable thing to do. “I told the guy he must’ve dialed a wrong number. Even if it was your father, Peter, how and why the hell did he call my number instead of yours?”

“Testing the waters?”

“By harassing your girlfriend? I don’t know the guy.”

Peter looked far too lost in thought for Gamora to let it slide.

“Hey,” she muttered, snapping her fingers in front of Peter’s blank stare for good measure, “you’re not seriously considering reaching out to him, are you? He ditched you when you were a kid and now he wants to play nice? Who the hell does that?”

Peter remained unnervingly quiet, still slurping Gamora’s latte through the garish, striped straw. 

“No, you’re right,” he said, his words juxtaposing his voice — empty and distant. “We don’t even know if it _was_ him.”

“Right,” Gamora said forcefully, in case Peter, the damned idiot, was still considering contacting the no-caller-ID potential axe murderer. “Peter?”

“Right,” he repeated. 

He was startled out of his wits when the cafe phone rang just then, the shrill tone blaring out from behind the counter. Some aching, morbid crevice in Peter’s chest wondered if maybe the person on the other line  could just so happen to be Gamora’s mystery caller from the day before.

He sank back into his seat and watched from the corner of his eye as Mantis wiped her hands on the front of her uniform apron and picked up the receiver. 

Then: “Peter, it’s for you.”

Peter’s heart stopped beating in his chest, and he shot Gamora a panicked look before stumbling out of the booth and towards the phone. He’d never been in a life threatening situation, never stood in the direct line of fire, and yet as he ducked under the counter, he felt as though he was stepping out onto an unmarked minefield in the middle of a pitch black night wearing a blindfold.

“Quill here,” he mumbled into the phone. 

The voice that came from the other end was most certainly not the infamous father figure, rather someone far more angry, and far more scary. 

Peter leaned a few inches away from the receiver, worried the increasingly loud, increasingly creative cuss words he was being subjected to would make him go deaf in both ears — _somehow_.

“Yes. _Yes_. Yes, of course. Yes, sir. Right away. Back to work. Sorry. _No_ , won’t happen again. _Yes_ , I do take this job very seriously. Oh, thank god. Thank _you_. Okay. Yes, no problem. Yep. _Yes, sir_. Okay, bye.”

Peter slammed the phone back onto the wall hook, untangling his hand from the ancient cord that still held the device together. 

He swiveled around to face Gamora across the room, pale and anxious.

“Not your dad?” she hazarded a guess.

“ _All-seeing_ ,” Peter stage whispered. “ _Yondu the all-seeing_. How the hell does he know exactly what I just spat all over booth seven instead of doing my job on the right side of the pretty marble counter? What kind of CCTV satellites do they have on that cruise in the middle of the goddamned ocean? And why is he watching the feed instead of sipping piña coladas and getting laid? And why the _fuck_ do I still work here?”

 

/

 

“This is an intervention,” Gamora announced, when Rocket walked into the cafe the next day and found both Peter and Mantis still behind the counter in full uniform despite their long-standing shift system agreement; with Gamora standing closer to the door to stop him from running if bad came to worse.

Drax was there too, sitting at the table nearest the counter, intently dissecting a glazed strawberry muffin with his fingers. There was a smiley face drawn in marker on his paper cup.

“What’re you intervening?” Rocket dared to ask, inching toward the counter, taking the safest path behind a row of tables, out of Gamora’s direct line of access. 

“You and Peter are going to do the afternoon shift together, and no one is going to get killed. It’s time to bury the hatchet, boys.”

Drax looked up from his muffin. “Was I supposed to bring my hatchet?”

Gamora hardly spared him a glance. “No.”

“Didya agree to this, Quill?” Rocket demanded, beady eyes zeroing in on Peter. “Where’s Carina?”

“Told her to take the day off,” Gamora supplied, before Peter had a chance to open his big mouth and blow it all to hell by saying something snarky. “Yes, he agreed to it. No, I didn't give him the option to say no.”

Mantis took that as her cue, untied her apron and slipped inside the tiny employee's lounge to hang it up, grabbing her bag and sweater, and clocking out. She was on the other side of the counter before Rocket could fully wrap his head around the concept of spending an entire afternoon working alongside Peter Quill without argument or bloodshed. 

Drax stopped her with a hand on her wrist before she could make it halfway across the room. 

“What’s your opinion on coffee?”

Mantis paused, furrowing her brows. “I work in a coffee shop.”

“So, you enjoy it?”

“I suppose so.”

Drax hummed under his breath, dropping her hand and his gaze back down to his plate.

Mantis pursed her mouth in a tight lipped, polite smile and nodded goodbye at the rest of the group before disappearing out the door. 

Gamora rolled her eyes at Drax’s painfully obvious, utterly failed attempt at flirtation, and clasped her hands together. 

“Right. Work. You two. ’Til closing. No using silverware as weapons.” 

Peter grunted to himself, as if spoon-on-spoon combat had been in his itinerary for the evening, and Gamora had just botched his plans. 

“I have classes until six tonight, so if either of you ends up in the emergency room, you’re on your own to fill out the insurance paperwork like big boys.”

Peter shivered at the thought of paperwork, especially of the insurance variety. 

By the time Rocket had begrudgingly tugged his apron over his head and double knotted it behind his back, Gamora was gone, disappeared into the concrete expanse of the outdoor parking lot. 

“Do you have any more of these little pastries?” Drax asked, picking up the leftover crumbs from the tabletop. 

“Do you have any more money?” Rocket fired back, sharp grin in place.

Drax’s face fell at that, because humor was not something he could detect, and he scraped his chair back as he stood. “I thought we were friends.”

Foregoing the self-service dish return policy entirely, he stalked across the room and slammed the frail glass door behind himself on the way out.

Peter emerged from the employee’s broom closet lounge at the sound, cutting his panicky _don’t make me do this_ phone call to Gamora short, and squinting at Rocket. “What’d you do?”

Rocket was staring off into the distance, gaze focused on the ancient chocolate stain on the wall above booth three. “Y’know, I think he has a crush on Mantis.”

“Who, Drax? And that’s why he left?”

“Nah, he left ‘cause I wouldn’t give him more muffins on the house. I don’t need Yondu the all-seeing knocking me on my ass when he comes back from his bullshit cruise,” Rocket elaborated. “But the crush is real. It’s very real.”

 

/

 

It wasn’t for another week after that, that shit well and truly hit the fan. In this case, _shit_ took the form of one middle aged and ruggedly handsome man walking through the door of the Galaxy with his chin raised high and eyes searching, immediately suffocating everyone with his very presence, like he owned the damned place and expected them to know it and fall to their knees in praise.

Peter and Rocket were working the shift together again, wearing their bi-weekly proverbial _get along_ shirt. But it was Peter front and center at the counter, cleaning up after his last order, when he froze and dropped the half-full coffee pot altogether. 

The clatter and following splash turned heads, including Rocket’s, with the accompanying, high-pitched shriek of, “ _The fuck, Quill_?”

Peter was too busy seething to pay attention to the mess; coffee stains and curious stares be damned. 

“So, it _was_ you on the phone.”

It wasn’t a question. He climbed over the counter (Yondu’s threatening phone calls also be damned), wiping the backs of his hands on his apron, and jabbing an accusing finger at his father’s chest.

“Peter — ”

“Don’t _Peter_ me, you know I don’t want to see you. Not now, not ever.”

“You’re making a scene, Peter.”

“Funny,” Peter snapped. “That’s just what you said the last time I screamed at you for _leaving mom_. And me,” he added as an afterthought. “I made it very clear, _dad_ , that it’s pretty much over for the two of us.”

Rocket had taken to quietly and inconspicuously cleaning up the impossible mess Peter had made of the crowded space behind the counter. 

The clients were pointedly pretending not to notice the heated exchange in the middle of the establishment, acting like they didn’t all suspect it would escalate to fists in the span of minutes.

“What’d you call Gamora for? If you have your dirty sources for everything you could have at least been a man and called me, huh? Leave her out of this.”

Ego bit the inside of his cheek in a forced show of submission, and softened his gaze for Peter’s sake. “I had to see how you’d react.”

“Great. She pretty much told you to fuck off, so I don’t get why you’re here. What do you want?”

“Can we talk elsewhere, son? In private?”

“I’m working.”

Ego huffed a tired laugh and looked around the cafe as though the walls spontaneously began sprouting mold and crumbling at the edges.

“I’ve told you when you were a kid, you don’t need to work. I could pay — ”

“ _Really_? You prance in here and you tell me to drop everything and come with you, as if I’ll listen. I told you, I don’t want your money. _Mom_ told you that when you walked out the door. _I_ told you that, the last time I saw you. Which was what, twelve years ago? And you think I’m happy to see you now? I’m not. I don’t want you here. And did you, maybe for a single second, even consider coming to mom’s funeral? _Or was that too fucking irrelevant for you to get off your high horse for_?”

Not a single clink of silverware against cheap IKEA china disrupted the silence that fell over the room. The entire world was holding its breath.

“Quill,” Rocket finally muttered from behind the counter. There was an odd glint of something sad and uncharacteristically compassionate in his eyes. “You should go. I’ll do fine on my own.”

Peter blinked a few times, surprised to find his lashes wet, and cleared his throat before speaking. 

“You — you sure?”

“Sure,” Rocket shrugged, forcefully emanating positive reassurance. “I’ve worked here longer than you, pal.”

Peter nodded in silent thanks, and slid his apron over the counter, in exchange for which Rocket handed him his jacket. 

“Don’t hurt your old man too much, alright?” Rocket mumbled loud enough for only Peter to hear. “Remember what Gamora said about insurance claims? Paperwork. Spooky.”

Peter cracked a half-assed smile. “Thanks, Rocket.”

He turned and glared daggers at his father, walking briskly to the door, brushing past Ego with no intention of waiting.

“If you wanna talk, we’re not doing it here. You’re gonna get me fired, and give me another damn reason to hate you.”

The bells above the front door twinkled their cheerful tune, and Peter fought to keep down the bile threatening to worm its way up his throat. _Just one little conversation; you never have to see him again._

It didn’t stop the ominous storm clouds looming overhead from suddenly hanging lower, and tinting the entire world a darker shade of gray. 

 

/

 

Gamora glanced down at her phone when a melodic clink alerted her to an incoming text. 

 

 ** _from_** : _Rocket [10:44 AM]_

_quill’s old man just waltzed in?? damage control??_

 

She swore and set her phone back down, switching off the treadmill; curling her hands into tight fists at her sides, as if it could turn back time and prevent the accursed phone call from Ego from coming through in the first place.

 

/

 

It had started off as a one-on-one heart-to-heart, with Peter and Gamora, and a single bottle of cheap beer that Peter had found in the recesses of his fridge, but then Drax showed up for no apparent reason with two dozen donuts in bright pink boxes, and it escalated into another full scale intervention.

Rocket arrived not soon after, having heard that there was only one bottle of beer to go around, and naturally coming to the rescue with two six packs. Groot provided moral support and sipped his orange juice on the living room floor.  
  
“No, they made a scene in the Galaxy,” Rocket was saying. “It’s good they had this talk outdoors. Less casualties than if they’d gone to the Starbucks down the block.”

Groot glared at Rocket. “But if one of them got murdered, and the murderer hid the body, let’s say, in the freak swamp behind that old pagoda, no one would ever know. They shouldn’t have gone to the park.”

“And why the hell would they kill each other? Would your dad try and kill you? C’mon, Quill, tell this dumbass — ”

Gamora held up a hand, silencing the argument instantly. Rocket didn’t believe in gods, but he was pretty sure Gamora was as close as it came to possessing divine powers.

“It doesn’t matter _where_ they talked, just that Peter is giving this more thought than necessary.”

There was a metallic clank as Drax threw his empty beer bottle across the tiny living room and landed it square in the trash can in the kitchen corner. He quickly celebrated by pumping his fist in the air, before turning to his gathered friends. 

“How much thought is more thought than necessary?” he asked, as per usual whipping out the hard hitting questions.

Gamora shot a concerned look at Peter. “Tell them.”

When Peter, who’d remained worryingly quiet throughout the entire exchange, finally looked up, his eyes were glazed over and empty, mind floating off elsewhere entirely.

“Peter,” Gamora repeated, more forcefully than before.

He blinked and tilted his head, scanning the room. It was almost as if he hadn’t noticed anyone other than Gamora entering the apartment in the first place. 

“I wanna give him a chance.”

The silence that followed was hollow and downright eerie, silent and all-encompassing like the concrete confines of a tomb.

“His apology was genuine,” Peter went on. “As odd as I find it — I believed him when he said he was sorry.”

A beat passed, then:

“Bullshit,” Rocket laughed. “I call bullshit.”

Groot glared wide-eyed at Rocket’s untimely cackling fit. There was a time and place for everything, but this was not the time nor place for poking fun at the depths of Peter’s emotions.

“Not cool,” Drax added, summing up the whole event, when it took Rocket a full minute to wipe the hysterical tears from the corners of his eyes.

“Look,” Rocket said, voice worn from his fit, “I get that you want a daddy to play catch with; someone who yells at you for shitty report cards, and teaches you to shoot your first BB gun, but Mr. Ego ain’t it. He ditched yous when you were too small to understand he’d never come back. Took the damn easy way out and dropped off the weight of raising a child before taking off with his big-ass fancy career and his secretary, no doubt.”

Peter blinked. His voice was still unnervingly empty. “Yondu showed me how to shoot a BB gun once. In the cafe, after hours. We used shot glasses as targets.”

Groot smiled.

Rocket snorted. “Ha. He probably also taught you more about taxes than your old man ever did.”

Gamora let out an honest to god _growl_ , and raised her tone. “You’re all missing the damn point. There’s a serious situation taking place here — Peter wants to see his dad again, and I’m pretty sure it’s our job to support him, no matter what we think of his choice.”

“I mean, as long as it don’t get him killed,” Rocket piped up. “Can’t support by-proxy murder.”

Groot shoved him hard enough to knock him over. “Time to shut up, Rocket.”

“It won't get him killed,” Gamora assured them, though the promise was empty. She knew full well that if Ego’s intentions were dishonest, the damage done to Peter’s psyche could be irreversible. In a way, supporting his decision to reconcile with his father may as well have been flicking the switch on a wired time bomb.

“He said,” Peter spoke up again, “that he missed the funeral because he was abroad at the time. My mom had made it clear she never wanted to see him again, and he didn’t hear about her — about what happened, until it was far too late to do anything about it, much less fly over and pay his respects.”

“It don’t change the fact that he abandoned you, Quill. You were so little.”

“He said it hurt too much to come back. Without her around.”

Gamora reached over and laced her fingers with Peter’s, his shivering and pliant in hers. She gave his hand a comforting squeeze, hoping it would balance out the hostility Rocket continued providing.

“I think,” Groot muttered, chiming in to the actual debate for the first time, “that if you feel this is the right thing to do, you should do it. Just be careful not to dive in too deep, too fast.”

“Wise words,” Drax added. “I agree,” because he had to take _some_ credit for helping his friend out of a tough spot.

Peter’s lips folded into a half-smile, and though the uncertainty blazed bright in his eyes, he forced himself to show how grateful he was to have friends who not only supported his decision, but actually listened to what he had to say about it. 

“But if you’re doing this,” Rocket warned, “try not to get burned.”

 

/

 

The days that followed were remarkably uneventful, save for the single incident of a pressurized can of whipped cream flying across the cafe and nearly taking out the display windows up front, where Peter just so happened to be wiping down the glass. Rocket swore up and down that it’d been an honest mistake, and not a legitimate attempt on Peter’s life. 

It wasn’t until a sunny Wednesday afternoon, that some serious, so-called _drama_ took place. 

Peter had just clocked in to work, Rocket hollering a rushed goodbye and running off at the speed of light to make it to his yoga class on time.

Drax was sitting at the same table he always occupied with Mantis across from him, chatting quietly over brightly colored milkshakes, complete with crazy straws and mini marshmallows. And _that_ , Peter knew, was either going to end very well, or very terribly.

Carina was watching nervously from behind the blender, and Peter couldn't blame her.

“Any news from the morning shift?” he asked, to get her mind off somebody else’s potentially catastrophic date.

“Yes. Um — ” Carina trailed off, reaching for the notepad that always laid beneath the main phone for the purpose of jotting down customer orders and Yondu’s unexplainable CCTV-observed comments. “Rocket said the Sovereign called, ordered twenty dozen golden glazed donuts for their banquet next month. And we have a cake order to fill for tomorrow, with the lettering _Happy Birthday Taser-Face_. Rocket lost his shit over the phone with that one.”

Peter whistled at the name. “You call production. I’ll take the register.”

He hooked his phone up to the speaker and put one of his iconic playlists on to brighten the mood in the room. Quality music always seemed to switch on the buying factor amongst the customers.

It wasn’t ten seconds later that the bells chimed and Groot shuffled inside.

“You just missed Rocket,” Peter told him apologetically, “by a tragic three minutes. Love waits for no one, amigo.”

Groot approached the counter with his cheery smile still in place. “Good. Whatever. I’ll see him at home. I’m here for you.”

Peter narrowed his eyes with an ominous furrow of his brows. “Sounds like a threat.”

“Yeah, I was hired to take you out. Sorry, Peter.” He paused, then: “I guess I just wanted to ask how it’s going with your dad. It’s not really an over-the-phone sort of topic. Also, I despise talking over the phone. I’ll have a large pink lemonade while we talk so Yondu doesn’t catch you wasting time. I still get the heebie-jeebies when I remember that time he threatened to shove one of those replica arrows he collects up your — ”

“Okay,” Peter interrupted. “Yes. Right. Unpleasant imagery. One large pink lemonade coming up.”

There was something heartwarming about the thought that there were people as legitimately caring and kind, and socially awkward as Groot, spreading their warmth around wherever they went. Peter decided to put a little extra pink in the pink lemonade, instead of watering it down like Rocket did for shits.

There was nobody else in need of servicing, so Groot dropped a few crumpled bills onto the counter, and pulled up a chair from the nearest table. “So, how’s it going with you two?”

Peter shrugged from over by the ice dispenser. “Pff. Baby steps, I guess. We went to dinner in some over the top, posh place last night, which was nice, except I couldn’t tell what language the menu was in. Turns out it was English, but it wasn’t exactly a fries and shake sort of joint.”

He slid the cold plastic cup over to Groot and tossed him a straw, taking the money and tapping the total into the register. Groot’s _keep the change_ was implied.

“That sounds nice,” Groot said. “I mean, no one expects you to immediately bond over every darkest, deepest secret. Baby steps is right.”

“Hmm,” Peter hummed, tracing abstract patterns on the counter with his fingertips. “He wants to take me on a tour of the local brach of his firm here in the city. Says he’s never visited this particular one either, ‘cause it’s too minor to take regular flights out of LA for. That’s fucked up, isn’t it? That that silvery building downtown has my dad’s name on it, and here I am slumming it in a rundown coffee shop, barely scraping together enough for rent. And it never even occurred to me to visit the damned place.”

Groot took a long, thoughtful slurp of lemonade before responding. “It’s not weird. You felt betrayed, you didn’t want to know him. You ignored the big, shiny building.”

“And it’s not weird that I’m suddenly going there? _With him_?”

Groot shook his head. “It’s sweet that he reached out. Obviously, it’ll take more than a week to mend the broken trust, but — no one’s saying you won’t manage.”

“Rocket’s saying just that.”

“Yeah, Rocket also thought raccoons were made up by Disney until fifth grade. Don’t listen to him.”

Peter’s bark of laughter was drowned out by a sharp scrape of a chair resounding through the room. 

Drax had stood up abruptly, Mantis pushing her chair back and getting to her feet as well, although with far more grace than the former.

It seemed the date was over. 

Groot turned slowly in his chair and followed Peter’s line of sight. A businesslike farewell was taking place: a curt shaking of hands, a tight, somewhat apologetic smile from Mantis, and a typically neutral facial expression from Drax. It was all in the name of good manners — Mantis was truly the most considerate creature of them all and would never storm off, even if it’d ended on the worst of terms.

With that, she took her bag off the back of the chair she’d been occupying, and ducked away across the room, and out the door. 

Drax huffed at no one in particular and got started with picking up the empty glasses, finally respecting the subtle art of cleaning up after oneself. He dropped them onto the counter, all up in Peter’s face, and huffed again. 

“Not so good, huh?” Peter asked, raising his eyebrow at the glasses in front of him like they’d personally offended his haircut.

Drax shook his head. “I was diplomatically informed that I am not her _type_. I’m trying not to take offense.”

Peter shrugged. “I don’t think any of us here are her type. It’s nothing personal.”

“You can still be friends,” Groot offered. “She’s nicer than any of you could ever hope to be.”

Drax seemed to try even harder not to take offense. Then, he frowned, curling his lips up in distaste. “Perhaps. Though through this failure I’ve brought shame onto my flawless track record.”

Groot tilted his head. “What track record?”

“Don’t fucking ask him about the track record,” Peter hissed, because he really didn't need another story about Drax’s nighttime conquests. 

It did little to stop the jovial tale from pouring out, Drax’s uproarious laughter jarring innocent coffee-drinkers out of their mellow moods.

 

/

 

“Is the boyfriend home?”

Nebula had barely gotten the door fully open when the question poured out of Gamora’s mouth. The greeting wasn’t exactly polite, but neither was Ronan. It was easier to avoid unnecessary confrontation whenever and wherever possible.

“No,” Nebula finally said, after a good few seconds of deliberation on whether or not to slam the door in her sister’s face. “He’s in New York on business. Lucky you. Did you need something?”

“Believe it or not, I’m here for purely altruistic reasons.”

“Hard to believe.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Gamora snapped, in a friendly way. The two of them still hadn’t managed to climb all the way up the _learning to be sisters again_ ladder, but sarcasm and common ground were key. “May I?”

Nebula pursed her lips but moved aside, granting full access to the doorway and to the apartment beyond. Gamora soundlessly passed her sister on her way in, careful not to brush against her, should that breach their silent _no hugs and/or excessive physical contact yet_ rule.

“Coffee?” Nebula offered, once the door was shut and locked behind them.

“No, thanks.” She paused, watching the way Nebula eyed her like a betrayed child. She’d reached out and Gamora had swatted the proverbial helping hand aside. “I spend more time with Peter at work than I do in my own room. I’ve had it with coffee,” she said, in lieu of a proper explanation.

“Right, but they haven’t replaced their filters since the dark ages,” Nebula countered, heading towards the kitchen anyway. “And we just got a new espresso machine. So, I’ll make you a real coffee that doesn’t taste like gym socks, and you can tell me all about your altruistic reasons for being here.”

“No, really, I don’t need any favors. Purely friendly visit.”

“We’re not friends.”

“ _Sisterly_ visit.”

Nebula grunted in response.

“Hey,” Gamora teased, “I even brought you one of these.”

She trailed off, digging into her tote bag and fishing out a bright pink dragonfruit, tossing it in Nebula’s direction. It was a juvenile and frankly lame attempt at referencing a recurring childhood joke, concerning an eight year old Nebula and an unripe fruit. Judging by the forced grimace (keyword, forced) on her sister’s face, Gamora knew the sentiment didn’t go unappreciated.

“Milk and sugar?” Nebula asked, instead of throwing the fruit back at Gamora’s head in hopes of fixing her with a concussion. 

“Please.”

It was about two hours and two coffees into their conversation (which did turn out to be wholly innocent in both nature and purpose, and not bloody in the slightest), that Gamora realized she and Nebula weren’t the ones lurking about with ulterior motives.

“Wait, hold on, _what_?”

“What, what?” Nebula echoed. “He sues people all the time, nothing strange about that?”

And Thanos wasn’t the deceiver in question either, no matter how many times he’d lied to his business partners, or his daughters.

“No,” Gamora muttered, “I mean — who’d you say the lawsuit’s against?”

Nebula was absentmindedly swirling her spoon around her half empty mug. “Ego? The big resource conglomerate, I think. Does it matter who? Dad’s dipping into our trust funds to pay off his dirty lawyers.”

Gamora grew very still, fingers freezing over the biscuits on her plate. She wasn’t one to rewatch the entire Star Wars saga on a monthly basis, but Peter’s little sayings tended to rub off: needless to say, she had a bad feeling about this. 

“Do you — know why he’s suing Ego?”

She tried to play it off as an innocuous question, but neither of them were particularly skilled liars. 

“Why do you care?”

“Nebula, please.”

Nebula chewed her bottom lip between her teeth, scanning Gamora’s face for any minuscule detail that could reveal the true desperation behind the question. And while Gamora wasn’t trained in deceit, she had a killer poker face.

“Hell, I don’t know. I tried Googling it, because dad’s literally stealing our money to fund his little operation at this point, and I didn’t find much. Legal underworld, and all that.”

“What did you find?”

Nebula paused. She couldn’t pinpoint what was making Gamora tick, what had her prying for answers with eyes wide.

“Not much,” she repeated herself. “Just that daddy’s not the only one suing. I think whatever he — Ego — did to piss off more than half his investors is far too complicated for me grasp, let alone try and explain to anyone.”

“Just try.”

“Why do you care?”

Gamora sighed sharply. “Because Ego is Peter’s father. And just last week he waltzed back into Peter’s life like he was owed a spot.”

“Shit,” Nebula said quietly, eloquently.

“I just — I just want to be sure he’s not — ” Gamora trailed off, finally registering Nebula’s reaction. “What do you mean, _shit_?”

“It all makes sense now, at least,” Nebula mused aloud. She was close enough to both Gamora and Peter to connect the dots when the dots were practically screaming to be connected. She eyed Gamora with something strangely akin to pity, and elaborated when her sister looked like she was about to burst from poorly concealed anxiety. “There’s some sort of legal loophole the investors found, and they’re exploiting it to rip Ego off. He’s — he wants to expand beyond the continent, even beyond Europe. The business was set to go worldwide, with nearly all the profits floating back into his own pocket, which naturally didn’t sit well with all the rich, old white guys. So, they want out, but they signed a contract to stay in business. They wanted to find a way to make it void.”

“And?” Gamora demanded. “What’s Peter got to do with this?”

“Ego’s firm is drastically lacking in the insurance division. They found a, well, a loophole, that enables them to sue him for failing to abide to regulations.”

“ _And_?”

Nebula pinched her lips together. “If you’re saying that Ego showed up now, of all times, with unknown intentions — I think Peter’s meant to be the solution.”

Gamora could feel her mug growing cold in her palms, but couldn’t be bothered. There was little she cared more about at present than Peter’s dick of a father using him as a tool for world domination.

“Just tell me.”

“Ego’s saving money where he can,” Nebula said. “Like I said: on insurance, for instance. He gave the investors a damn convenient pretext to sue him for solid billions — they don’t wanna do business with a futureless company. Ego doesn’t have a business partner or an heir to act as a security measure should something happen. Which means if Ego dies, his money disappears, and the investors can’t demand their share from the company, because the company dies with him. I think he needs Peter to stay in business.”

Gamora’s gaze was distant at best. There was an unearthly rage simmering beneath the surface, and Nebula was certain that if Ego himself had been standing beside them at the moment, Gamora would have drop kicked his head clean off his shoulders.

“You’re saying if Ego doesn’t coerce Peter to sign on as majority shareholder, he loses everything to those lawsuits.”

Nebula pushed her chair back and stood, grabbing both hers and Gamora’s mugs to take to the sink. “You’re the one working on a fancy degree, you tell me.”

It took a few moments for Gamora to snap out of her trance and realize her fingers were wrapped around thin air. “I wasn’t finished with that.”

Nebula’s scoff was audible over the running water. “Maybe your body hasn’t caught up with your mind yet, but I can tell you’re halfway across town already, sprinting to warn Peter.” 

She switched off the faucet and leaned on the counter with the one hand that wasn’t full of soapy dish sponge. “Go save the day.”

Gamora shot to her feet, fully aware that if she didn’t act fast, Peter would do something incredibly stupid, like sign a lifelong contract within six days of (once more) meeting his father. For all she knew, Ego could have had him tied in up in some concrete basement in the bowels of the company headquarters, brainwashing him into holding a pen and scribbling his name on the dotted line.

“Thank you,” she said to Nebula, before she opened the front door. She meant it sincerely.

“Save it,” Nebula sighed, hiding a fond smile behind the short wisps of dark hair that hung out of her ponytail. She had to keep up pretenses after all. One could get the wrong impression — that she liked her sister, or something equally preposterous.

“I’m sorry I’m running out like this, we can — ”

“Reconvene at a later opportunity. Yep, got it. Save your stupid boyfriend, sister.”

Gamora grinned back. There was no one around to see them getting along, after all.

 

/

 

 ** _from_** : _Gamora [03:34 PM]_

_r u with peter? he’s not home_

 

 ** _from_** : _Rocket [03:35 PM]_

_he ain’t at work today. bonding time with pop_

 

 ** _from_** : _Gamora [03:35 PM]_

_emergency meeting. leave someone else in charge_

 

 ** _from_** : _Rocket [03:40 PM]_

_ha. not leaving carina alone *explosion emoji*_

 

 ** _from_** : _Gamora [03:40 PM]_

_ego is evil. call groot and find drax. peter’s place in 20_

 

_/_

 

Peter jiggled his key in the lock, kicking the uncooperative doorframe like a kid throwing a tantrum. His ratty apartment actively worked against him, doing everything in its power to piss him off.

It was weirder still, to find his mismatched group of friends sitting on the living room floor amidst plastic bags from a local takeout place.

“It’s not my birthday, is it?” he asked hesitantly, flicking through his mess of a mental calendar. 

Drax took offense, for some reason. “You wouldn’t know if it was your birthday?”

“I — ” Peter started, then eyed the food suspiciously. “You brought tacos? Is this another intervention?”

“Drax brought the tacos,” Rocket explained. “He always brings food.”

“I get hungry,” Drax explained, as if it weren’t obvious.

“Come,” Rocket continued, “sit cross legged with us upon your unwashed floor, you poor man.”

Groot elbowed him for his insensitivity.

“What do you mean, _poor man_?” Peter demanded, tone somewhere between angry and hopelessly confused. He sat regardless. “What did you do?”

“It’s about your dad, Peter,” Gamora told him.

“He — what about him? I just saw him.”

Drax bit into one of the tacos, the crunchy sound of the breaking shell reverberating about the small room. 

Gamora was trying to ease Peter into reality lightly, but Rocket (stupidly) took initiative and ripped off the bandaid. “He’s lying to ya, Quill.”

Peter’s hand froze midway to the bag of tacos. He retracted his fingers and knit his hands together in his lap. “He’s what? What’s he lying about? And how would you know, anyhow?”

There was no easy way to tell someone you loved and cared about that their long lost father was evil, and trying to worm his way back into your life for the sole purpose of leeching onto your very existence and using it to his personal gain.

“My father was one of the investors in business with him,” Gamora said, voice soft. “Ego needs you as his legal beneficiary to close a big deal. He’s using you, Peter, that’s why he’s back.”

Peter’s face fell. It crumbled until it seemed tears would prick his eyes, then a horrible frown took over.

“Why would you say that?”

“It’s true.”

Peter tensed. “I’m getting the chance here, to rebuild a relationship with my dad, and you — all of you — are trying to rip that away from me?”

Groot looked down at the ground.

“We want to protect you, Peter,” Gamora was saying. “We care about you, we care if someone hurts you and we want to stop them from doing so. Your father is lying to you.”

Peter snorted. “You’re saying he’d have flown halfway across the country and played nice to get me to sign a fucking contract? How — how am I supposed to believe that?”

Gamora looked him in the eye, trying to convey every ounce of emotion she wasn’t any good at conveying in the first place. “I wouldn’t lie to you.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

Rocket piped up. “ _I_ would. Drax might, by omission. Groot would, if I asked him real nice. She wouldn’t.”

It was an odd, touching gesture, coming from him.

Peter watched his friends for a quiet, unnerving minute, then gathered his wits and pushed himself to his feet with a mutter of, “ _I can’t fucking believe this_.”

Gamora reached out to stop him, but he was out of her grasp before her fingers made contact. “Where are you going, Peter?”

“To get some damned answers,” he snarled. A few seconds passed, then: “Thanks for the tacos. Leave me some in the fridge.”

 

/

 

At a loss for where to go, with his apartment occupied with a caring yet overzealous bunch of friends, Peter called Ego under false pretenses and asked him to meet him in the cafe in half an hour. He didn’t want to do this over the phone; he wanted to gauge his father’s sincerity with this own two eyes. And the cafe was a better idea than the park, which Groot might have been right about, in terms of hiding bodies.

When he got there, Carina was wiping down tables in the front. She glanced up to shoo away a potential late evening customer, and frowned in surprise at finding Peter standing in the doorway instead.

He opted for minimal casualties.

“Hey. Evenin’. You wanna head home early?” he offered. “I’ll finish and close up.”

“Did Rocket tell you I’m incapable again?”

Peter opened and closed his mouth. “ _No_. No. Not at all. I just have — look, I’m still meeting someone here and I don’t want you to have to stick around longer than necessary. Or get hit in the head with a flying toaster if things escalate, or whatever.” He paused and took in Carina’s wide, confused expression. “Just. I’ll finish. Go.”

Carina didn’t need to be told twice after that. Evidently, flying toasters were the final straw.

Once she disappeared into the night with a cheery wave and cautious goodbye, Peter let his head droop down onto the cold marble of the counter. He felt like his chest was about to burst, torn apart from the inside by the sheer disgust and disappointment and _anger_ he was feeling at the very prospect of being used.

At least the register was settled, and Peter didn’t have to do math this late in the evening. 

He hardly noticed the passage of time until the irritatingly twinkly bells chimed and Ego walked inside, brows furrowed, like he half expected Peter’s spontaneous message to be a prank call.

“Everything alright, son?”

Peter wanted to break something. He wanted to smash windows and throw the shattered pieces at whatever deity made his life so complicated. 

“Did you lie to me?”

Ego approached him slowly, frown lines creasing deeper across his forehead. Peter slid over the countertop and stood his ground.

“Why’d you take me on that little tour today? Of the company?”

Ego bristled. It struck a nauseating chord in Peter’s chest.

“It’s my — my pride and joy, Peter. I wanted to share that with you. It’s gonna be yours someday, after all.”

Peter thought he was going to be sick. “Is it?”

Ego tried to play off a cool smirk. “ _One day_ , son. Don’t get too excited about getting rid of your old man.”

There existed a feeling Peter could not quite explain: like walking on the curb at the edge of the sidewalk, holding your hands out on both sides for balance, then tripping over an untied shoelace and falling to the ground in a heap. It was the moment between the realization and the impact, the twisting lurch in your stomach that prepared for inevitable pain.

“But that’s not true, is it?” Peter muttered. “I’m not — I never signed on as your beneficiary. Or shareholder — whatever. Not yet.”

Ego cocked his head and shrugged. “That’s not a problem. I got the papers all written up if you’re up for it.”

Peter felt the impact in his bones. He’d been too blind to see.

He was quite fed up with the same damn person pushing into his life and knocking it to pieces when he deemed fit, trying to reconcile with Peter for reasons that were never meant to benefit anyone but himself. And Peter realized, however dramatic it sounded, once and for all, that he did not have a father.

“And that’s why you came here,” he spat. It wasn’t a question.

“ _You_ called _me_ , Peter.”

“No, I don’t mean _now_. You called Gamora. Then you walked through those doors for the first time, and you took me out for dinner, and you spun a tale, and fed me a sob story, and then another, and showed off your stainless steel elevators and high-heeled secretaries like you could lure me into your bullshit trap and p _rofit from it_. Who does that?”

“I want you to be part of my life, Peter,” Ego said, tone raised in an obvious attempt to keep Peter on his side, to keep him placated and pliant enough to fit the plan. There was no use beating around the bush. “I thought you wanted that too.”

Peter strode a step forward, barely a foot away from Ego, who put his hands up in mock surrender.

“All you wanted was for me to sign your damn papers so you could keep bleeding rivers of money into your pockets. You need me. And that’s all you need me for.”

His voice cracked, going from a pained snarl to a broken whisper. 

“Peter — ”

“ _Stop lying to me_.”

Ego sighed in a patronizing display of defeat. “The signature would have been helpful.”

It wasn’t a pleasant experience, feeling your heart break inside your ribcage, again and again and again. It got tiring after a while.

“Get out.”

“Now, son,” Ego laughed, “let’s not blow this out of proportion.”

Peter felt utterly helpless. “Get out,” he repeated.

“What are you doing, Peter?”

“What I shoulda done the moment you walked in.”

It was that point in the evening where lousy fathers resorted to dirty threats. “If I walk out that door, you're never going to see me again. Not me, nor a bright future for yourself. You won’t get a single penny when I’m dead.”

Peter snapped.

“ _Don’t you get it_?” he shouted. “I don’t want the money. Mom never cared about the money; I never cared about the money. But that’s all that ever mattered to you — so, _go_. Enjoy it while it lasts. And take your rotten contract with you, and burn it for all I care, because I’m done being your puppet, I’m done getting thrown aside when you finish your grand performance. And, _dad_ , I’m done caring where you are or why you left. Frankly, I’m done caring you exist.”

“Don’t be stupid.”

“Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.”

Ego closed the distance between them. “You foolish, ungrateful — ”

“ _Hey_!”

Ego stopped short, and Peter looked over his shoulder, wide eyed, surprised at the unexpected voice intruding from the doorway.

The bells jingled as the door slammed closed. Ego turned to face Yondu, who tilted his head in consideration. “Evenin’, jackass. Quill,” he added, looking over at Peter. “What’s goin’ on here?”

Ego tensed. “It’s definitely none of your business.”

“Well, yer standing in the middle of my fine establishment 'ere, so I daresay it’s plenty my business.”

Peter blinked in confusion.

Yondu stopped not an arms length away from Ego. “Leave the kid alone, and fuck off to whatever hole you crawled outta.”

“Better watch your mouth before I — ”

“You what?” Yondu snapped. “Put me out of business again? I’ll kick your ass.”

“You couldn't if you tried.”

“I’ll kick anyone’s ass,” Yondu insisted. And Peter believed him. That, and he was thoroughly out of his depth in regard to what the utter hell was unfolding in front of him. “You ain’t done enough damage to the kid? The hell more do ya want?”

Ego bared his teeth. “Doesn’t concern you.”

“No? Sure it don't. You screw _me_ over when we was his age, and like that ain’t enough, I get stuck watchin' this kid grow through his angsty teenage years upset over the fact daddy ditched him 'n momma, and left him to fend for his own. Like hell I’ll let you hurt him again.”

Peter was having a rough time wrapping his head around the concept that Yondu was actively defending him, and not screaming his head off about the whipped cream incident. 

“You two — ” he managed, “know each other?”

Ego didn't spare his son a glance, staring daggers at Yondu like he wanted to break the guy’s neck. Peter was suddenly very glad he didn’t choose the park to hold this confrontation. Angry fights. Hiding bodies. Not cool.

“What are you doing here?” he added, when he got no answer to the first of his countless questions. 

“The second I saw this scumbag prance in on the security feed,” Yondu said, never taking his eyes off Ego. “Took the first available flights — five layovers, mind you — back 'ere. Damn lucky both y’all are here now, and I don't gotta wait another hour to whack this bastard over the head. Now, _scat_. I don’t wanna see ya in these parts again. And I sure as hell don’t wanna see you anywhere near the kid. You’re gonna leave him alone.”

It was hard to argue with the threat-laced conviction in his tone. Either that, or Peter was still too dumbfounded at the thought of Yondu sticking up for him to do anything more exerting than blink.

Ego, however, didn’t seem to be having the same problem. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll kick your ass. I done it before, I’ll do it again.”

“If you think you can tell me what — ”

The surely bone-chilling warning was cut short when a deep crack resounded about the room, Yondu’s fist connecting with Ego’s nose in a bright flurry of tropical-print shirt, and neat spray of blood across the floor.

“I said _out_ , fool.”

Peter’s mouth hung open a little more wide.

Ego was clutching his nose — broken, definitely, in at least in two places — and snarling through the thick red mess that cascaded down over his mouth. “I’ll destroy you — I’ll sue your ass — ”

Yondu supplied his most nonchalant _ha, that’s likely_ look and flipped Ego off. “Oh, _boo-hoo_. Piss off or I’ll sic my boys on ya.”

Ego glared at Yondu, then at Peter, and back at Yondu. “This isn't over.”

“Sure it is. Show your face again 'n I’ll break more than yer nose.”

Peter had never been as relieved to hear the happy chime of the doorway bells. And he had never been as confused as he was in this very moment.

It took him a while, but he eventually remembered how to use words. “What just happened?”

“Steer clear of yer old man, kid. He ain’t worth the trouble.”

Yondu was deflecting, and Peter (having had a very tough night, thank you very much) wouldn’t take that shit.

“I don't even know what's going on here. How am I supposed to trust you if you don’t give more than that?”

Yondu flexed his fingers, and walked around the counter to clean his hand up in the sink, and run cold water over his joints lest it bruise too badly. Contrary to common belief, it’d been a while since he’d kicked anyone’s ass.

“When we was your age, me 'n Ego, we were — _friends,”_ he spat the word with as much warmth one would expect from someone who’d gone through the misfortune of being friends with Ego. He didn't look at Peter. “Worked together for a while, ’til yer old man did some countin’ and realized he’d make a bit more extra bucks without a partner to split it with. Knew right then he was the worst sort.”

“Did you know who I was when you hired me?” Peter asked quietly.

Yondu said nothing.

“You knew I was his son? Is that why you hate me?”

That got his attention. “I don't hate you, boy,” he said, as if it were the most ridiculous thing in the world. “I — ” he trailed off, because he was getting into deep territory with Peter, and that risked his reputation as a stone cold cafe-running mob boss. “Hell. I felt bad for ya. You couldn’t brew a decent pot for shit, but I wasn't gonna toss ya out like he did.”

And while Yondu had made Peter cry before, it’d never been the kind of tears that made him want to run up to the man and _hug_ him. Peter refrained. He didn’t need a broken nose too.

“I didn't think you were — nice,” Peter said instead, like it was a new vocabulary word he’s just learned, and wasn’t quite sure it was the right fit to use in this situation. It was all far too surreal for him to comprehend.

“Don’t get used to it, kid.”

Peter huffed a disbelieving laugh. “And how my shitty slumlord said he’s cuttin’ my rent short — was that you paying off the rest? Oh, my god, you’re soft. You got a heart and all.”

“Dunno whatcha talking about,” Yondu insisted. “Now, don’t test my patience, boy, and get to cleanin’ this place up before I cut the price of that whipped cream from your paycheck.”

Peter blanched.

“Yeah, I saw that. I saw the fencing fight y’all did with the brooms too. Back to work.”

Peter picked up the sponge that sat dripping on the counter where he’d left it before Ego had shown up. He couldn’t believe how oddly content he was, standing in the ratty old cafe with Yondu yelling cuss words at him.

The emotions got the better of him. “Can I hug you?”

“I’ll break your twig arms, Peter.”

Peter choked back a watery laugh, and smiled wider.

 

/

 

Rocket and Mantis kept looking at Peter funny from the moment he walked into work the next afternoon.

There’d been total radio silence from him since he’d run off to confront Ego the night before, and Rocket had been on the verge of rallying Groot to search local parks with him when Peter hadn’t come home for three hours. Gamora’d said she’d wait up, and contact them should Peter turn up, but she never did, the pink haired demon. They were probably too busy sucking on each other’s mouths to send out a quick text to let the others know Peter hadn’t, in fact, gotten murdered. 

And there he was, alive and breathing.

He waited until Rocket finished a large non-fat soy latte with triple espresso and caramel toffee syrup to demand an explanation. Mantis was smiling at him like she knew something but wouldn’t quite share without Rocket’s permission.

“What’re you looking at me like that for?”

“There’s a — ” Rocket trailed off. “Yondu’s back.”

Peter considered his options. There wasn’t really a handbook on telling your best friends your boss from hell had, at some point, adopted you as his own, and smacked your biological father across the face when he stepped out of line. He settled for a simple, “I know.”

That seemed to confuse Rocket further. “Alright,” he said slowly, dragging the word out as long as he could. The unspoken _and…?_ was implied. 

“I guess you guys were right,” Peter shrugged, grabbing his apron off the hook. “My dad’s an asshole.”

Rocket raised his eyebrows in the universal gesture for _wanting more damn juicy details about what went down_.

“I’m sorry, Peter,” Mantis said abruptly. It was safe to assume news traveled fast and Peter’s predicament was of no secret to anyone. He may as well have expected sincere condolences from the sad looking guy in the garish tie-dye shirt at table four.

He nodded in genuine thanks and turned back on Rocket. “Is there something specific you wanna hear? You wanna tell me, _I told you so_?”

“Just that — ” Rocket trailed off again, which was weird in itself, and ducked inside the employees’ closet, motioning for Peter to follow. “Yondu came in this morning — gave me a frickin’ heart attack — and said to leave you this to — to put up on the front door.”

Peter knit his brows in confusion and took the roll of poster paper from Rocket, who shrugged and nudged Peter to unravel it.

Peter slid the rubber band off the roll and tossed it aside, refraining at the last minute from flicking it at Rocket’s forehead.

He opened the poster, careful not to crease it, and broke down in a fit of laughter, Rocket more confused than ever at his side.

 

/

 

Gamora was at the counter when Peter came out of the bathroom, eyeing the front door with caution. 

“Hiya,” he greeted.

“Hi,” she said, still watching the door. “Any reason there’s a poster of your dad out front?”

Peter looked very self-satisfied. “Didya read it?”

“Conceited douchebags not allowed?” she quoted.

Peter grinned.

“I won’t even ask,” Gamora told him after a moment.

Peter nodded, and took his grin down a notch. “I can respect that.”

He knew two things for certain: one — he had a hell of a story to tell his friends, and two — he was going to give Yondu the biggest damn hug the next time his grumpy ass walked within running distance.

He clasped his hands together and looked up at Gamora with a happy glint in his eyes that she couldn't quite remember ever seeing before.

“So, what can I get you?”

**Author's Note:**

> why kill a character when you can send them off on a caribbean cruise instead
> 
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